


if i try to get close (he is already gone)

by LilySnape



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Depressed Dean, Depression, M/M, Smoking, Smut, Suicidal Dean, Suicide, smut sans orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2956721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilySnape/pseuds/LilySnape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some things are irreparable; Cas' bedroom still smells of smoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i try to get close (he is already gone)

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning for suicide and depression I suppose. Also: major character death so uh....Be careful.

      It was the cold breeze slipping through the rusty screen that woke Cas.

  
     “Do you mind shutting the window?” he turned on his side and pulled the blanket tighter around his body, glaring at the silhouette that occupied the window sill. The figure took a moment to respond, busy blowing smoke from the cigarette between his gritted teeth.

  
      “You rather the entire apartment smell like cigarettes?” Dean asked, voice gruff with sleep and tar.

  
      “I rather you not smoke,” Cas answered. “Especially in the middle of the night,” he glanced at the clock on his nightstand, 3:21 visible in the poisonous light of the lamp that stood on the table.

  
      Dean remained quiet, lips opening around the cigarette for the inhale. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the whistle of the late night train through the open window. Yet here, by their dingy apartment building, the roads were quiet, uncharacteristically dead for the roaring city.

  
      “You have a class tomorrow morning,” Cas reminded him, rolling over onto his back. He lifted his hands and buried his face in them. Dean tried to chuckle, choked on the laugh, then raised the cigarette back to his lips.

  
      “Can’t,” he muttered, voice broken. Cas’ gut twinged. A beat passed then another; he sighed and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The cold floor rose up to meet his bare feet, making him shiver as he padded over to the window sill meters from the now empty bed.

  
      Nearer the window, Dean was no longer a dark shadow. The lamplight cast gold on his tired face, crawling into the lines and creases, pulling at the bags under his sullen eyes. Cas saw smoke dragging from his mouth to the air around him, ephemera. Arranging his limbs as to not disturb the man, he lowered himself onto the sill to sit opposite Dean.

  
      “Do you want to talk?” the question sounded juvenile on his tongue, but there _were_ some rare times where Dean wanted to talk. He’d tell Cas about what it felt like to feel weariness in his bones instead of his eyes, what it felt like to have his throat close up and his head spin at the thought of getting up in the morning, what it felt like to not be able to imagine himself alive a week in the future. He’d talk and leave Cas wishing he hadn’t asked at all.

  
      Dean shook his head and Cas swallowed thickly. Moving his leg, he made sure his calf was pressed to the underside of Dean’s thigh. The shy attempt at comfort made Dean smile weakly.

  
      “Just wanna smoke, Cas,” Dean said, voice shaking. “That’s it,” his mouth quirked in a pained smile that left as quickly as it came. “’m alright.”

  
      “Smoke on the bed,” Cas said, lifting the ash tray from Dean’s lap. He stood with it and walked back to the bed, sitting the tray down among the rustled sheets. He turned to see Dean rising from the sill.

  
      It was a big deal if Cas allowed him on the bed with a cigarette, Dean knew it. Cas didn’t like Dean’s smokes anywhere near him. He tolerated them; the only times he let Dean on the bed with a cigarette in his mouth were times when he wasn’t sure Dean would make it through the night.

  
      One morning, Cas had found Dean’s side of the bed empty expect for a single, smoldering cigarette in the ashtray. When Dean had come back from the deli with a carton of eggs for breakfast, Cas had slapped him across the face.

  
      “You think this is a fucking _game_ …,” he hissed in Dean’s face as they stood in the foyer of their apartment, lips curling and body seething rage. “I will put you in the ground before you get the chance to do it yourself,” his voice was a growl in his throat, barely louder than a whisper.

  
      That was a year ago; Dean had made sure Cas always knew where he was since then.

  
      He turned off the light on his way towards the bed, yet even in the dark, Cas knew he was still there. Tall frame and the invasive, heady smell of smoke, Dean towered above him. Arms wrapping around Cas, one around his waist, the other beneath his ass, he lifted the man in his shaky grasp. For a second, Cas was sure Dean would drop him, but Dean held tight, lowering them both to the bed. Sparking orange, the cigarette in his mouth was the only source of light in the room.

  
      Dean collapsed on his back, puff of breath knocked out from his lungs, glinting and expanding the flame of the fag in his mouth. He dug the ashtray out from under left thigh and made room for Cas to burrow into his side. As expected, Cas slipped under the arc of Deans arm, letting the man drape his arm around Cas’ shoulder and breathe out smoke as Cas laid his head down on Dean’s chest, right over his racing heart.

  
      Twirling the butt between his fingers, Dean gasped for breath, body shaking like a leaf.

  
      “Can’t fucking breathe,” he choked out quietly and Cas’ hand, lying on his chest, dug its nails into his skin.

  
      “I know,” Cas whispered. He lifted his head from Dean’s chest and rose to rest on an elbow. Leaning in, he pressed a rough kiss to Dean’s mouth, tasting ash and iron there. “I know,” he kissed him again and again until Dean’s head swam from lack of air. The cigarette wedged between his fingers flared and died out, slowly, choking like its owner.

  
-

      Cas broke his cigarette rule again two days later.

  
      Dean was sprawled out on the bed, bare chest and boxers rolled up on his thighs. His cigarette dangled loosely from his mouth, almost down to the filter, but for once, he didn’t seem concerned with it. In his hand was a spare notebook in which he was scribbling another poem, maybe a short story. Cas watched him with a smile. Writing seemed to be the only thing that Dean threw himself into full force the past year.

  
      In another half hour, he seemed to finish. Satisfied, he laid the book down beside him and fetched the cigarette from his mouth, killing its burn in the tray that stood on the nightstand. Lying across from him on the bed, Cas held his breath, praying that Dean didn’t light another one.

  
      He ended up laying the pack besides the ashtray, abandoning the smokes for a while, yet Cas was put off by the fact that Dean didn’t seem to feel any better.

      “Still feeling off?” he asked, lifting himself on his arms and crawling up towards where Dean laid. Even with his hands covering his face and his head tilted back among the pillows he was leaning on, Cas could hear Dean’s breathing coming in short bursts.

  
      “’m fine, Cas,” he muttered, taking his hands off his face and reaching around to wrap them around Cas’ waist. “C’mere.”

  
      He pulled Cas close and kissed him, mouth warm, still tasting of cigarettes. “Cas,” he mumbled, kissing the corner of the man’s mouth, then the bolt of his jaw, then his neck. Cas rolled his hand through Dean’s hair and sighed.

  
      Dean prepped him almost silently, save Cas’ eager pants and Dean’s own sighs of Cas’ name. He held Cas close to his chest, arm wrapped protectively around Cas’ waist, holding him upright as Dean whispered his name like a mantra and kissed his shoulder, his neck, the space where Cas’ hair met his ear.

  
      Cas ground his hips down and smiled into the crook of Dean’s shoulder. Each intonation of his name sounded different when it came from Dean’s mouth: familiar and tired, something bordering on reverence.

  
      “Cas.” _Angel._

  
      “Cas.” _Fuckin’ gorgeous._

  
      “Cas.” _I love you._

  
      “Cas.” **_I love you._**

  
      Cas groaned into Dean’s ear, panting, out of breath. He tapped Dean’s wrist and the man beneath him pulled out the fingers that had spent a good five minutes at his prostate. In one go, he sank down onto Dean’s exposed cock, letting out a desperate moan, clutching to Dean’s shoulders.

  
      “That’s it, baby,” Dean mouthed at his neck, running his fingers down Cas’ sides. Cas’ insides coiled at the pet name and he arched his back, rolling his hips forward. “Dean,” he gasped out.

  
      Dean held onto him tight, kissing at any exposed skin he could reach. It was only a minute or two until he pulled back from Cas’ body.

  
      He kept one hand firm on Cas’ waist while the other rummaged around the surface of the nightstand, clawing at the pack of Marlboro Lights that sat just near the ashtray. He found his lighter next to the pack and in a few moments, the cigarette was in between his shaking lips as he lit the tip, sparking it with a fierce glow.

  
      “Dean,” Cas growled out, gripping tighter at his shoulders as Dean shook his head, words slipping out from the corner of his mouth.

  
      “Just need a smoke, Cas,” he muttered, pulling Cas closer again. He dipped the cigarette from his mouth and pressed a kiss to Cas’ shoulder with a still-smoldering mouth. “God, you drive me crazy,” the smoke puffed out onto Cas’ skin; Dean laid his head down in the crook of Cas’ neck and let Cas fuck himself down with slow rolls of his hips.

  
      He caught Cas by the neck, pulling him away from his place on Dean’s chest so that Dean could look at him, all bright eyes and sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. Hastily shoving his cigarette between his lips to take a puff, he swallowed his whimper before it fell from his pliant lips.

  
      Cas’ eyes fixed on his lips hungrily, watched his Adam’s apple bob as he inhaled. Then without a warning, Dean gripped Cas’ neck tighter and pulled him close, exhaling a load of smoke into the other’s mouth.

  
      Cas choked and spluttered for a moment, yet remained stiller than Dean expected him to.

  
      “Dean,” he muttered, voice smoky yet soft, eyes shut tight, and Dean pulled him in for a kiss before he could elaborate. He licked into Cas’ mouth with a practiced familiarity, drawing their mouths as close together as possible before pulling back. This time, when he inhaled and brought Cas close, Cas was ready to breathe in the smoke that clung to Dean’s lips, sucking in the heady scent with relish. Dean knew how much he hated cigarettes really.

        
      The jerk of Cas’ hips was stuttered and erratic, not because he was close, simply because he was losing control of his movements. Dean kept him vertical with the hand that encircled Cas’ waist and Cas trusted him to do it. He keened into Dean’s touch like it grounded him; Dean fed him smoke from the tips of his lips.

        
      In another minute, Cas’ eyes were heavily lidded; he took a moment to lift himself up from the jut of Dean’s cock and collapse against the other’s chest, sated in a way that had nothing to do with his half hard cock.

  
      “You want me to finish you off?” Dean asked, cigarette dangling from the corner of his swollen mouth. He made a half-hearted attempt to find Cas’ cock between their stomach but gave up as soon as Cas shook his head. He lifted his chin from Dean’s chest and pressed a light kiss to the curve of Dean’s jaw.

  
      “Are you going to be alright?” Cas asked, hoping that Dean would know the question was meant for more than the state of his abandoned cock. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Cas knew he sounded awfully childish.

  
      Dean chuckled dryly, puffing out smoke from his mouth and leaving a cloud of it hanging in the air, making sure Cas couldn’t see his face.

  
      “Yeah, Cas,” he answered, “I’m gunna be just fine.”

  
-

      “Liar,” Cas choked out, kicking at the grass and dirt that piled underneath his feet. “You’re a fucking liar, Dean Winchester.”

  
      There was no answer in response. No half assed laugh complete with lidded green eyes holding his gaze; nothing.

      “Fuck you.”

      Cas rocked unsteadily on his feet. Heel to toe and back again. His hands shook badly and his breath filtered out between his gritted teeth, filing out through the edges like it was desperate to escape his body. Swallowing thickly, he opened his mouth to gasp in some air, looking more like a fish out of water than anything else.  
      

      “Dean,” he whined, voice so quiet that he could barely hear himself. “Dean, please,” he choked on a gasp of air. Tears gathered behind his shut eyelids and he willed Dean to answer him, just this once.

      The tense silence wore down on his chest; he cursed the air around him, the trees, the grass, the sky, for not understanding how badly he needed a response.

      Cas sank to ground, soil dirtying the knees of his slacks, marking them up so that he wouldn’t forget the headstone that stood eye level with him now. He couldn’t quite see it though, not through the haze in his eyes and head that only replayed moments in their dim bedroom for him. Repeatedly, stubbornly.  
      

      Dean with a barely smoking fag at the corner of his mouth, clad in boxers at the foot of their bed when Cas woke up in the morning to find Dean shaking. Dean, refusing to pull the blankets up around his shivering body as Cas tried his hardest to coax him out of bed on the day of exams. Dean, naked, sprawled on the windowsill and bathed ochre light, notebook and pen in either hand, writing stories he’d never let Cas read.

      Dean, all shaky sighs and trembling hands, pressing Cas close to his own body, fingers finding handholds in violent desperation only to breathe Cas’ name out in rapid bursts of smoke rings.

      Hand knocking against the pack in his pocket, Cas pulled it out. Red block print with white rims; Cas hated cigarettes, hated the way they looked, hated the way they tasted.

      From his other pocket, he retrieved Dean’s lighter, engraved silver with a fiery sun. 16th birthday present from his father, though that should have been a warning sign; what kind of sick fuck gives his 16 year old son a lighter for his birthday. Cas’ fingers fumbled with the opening.

      The cigarette laid pliant between his lips; he remembered how it used to look between Dean’s. Dean would puff out a breath, cover the light with the curve of his hand and…the flame took, almost surprising Cas. He stuttered on the inhale, coughing a bit as he breathed out.

      The drag of the smoke in his lungs helped with the ache in his sternum, making it so he could barely feel its pinpoint cut. He smoked until the cigarette was down the filter, pulling out blades of grass as he sat in front of the headstone and let the smoke cloud the throbbing in his head.

      “I can’t breathe, Dean,” was the only thing he could think to say. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and ran a hand over his face before exhaling, smoke and clean air mixing in their escape. “I can’t breathe.”

      It took a while for him to regain his footing; when he stood up, his frame trembled in the dying light of the cemetery.

      He left the cigarette still smoldering in the grass in front of the headstone, and then turned to walk in the direction of the sinking sun.


End file.
